Isotopes
by Sarah Elmira Royster Poe
Summary: Post Reichenbach. Sherlock's P.O.V. Great Hiatus. The meeting. John snaps. Sherlock breaks. Mycroft is Angry. A Journey to the future and back Again. Excess Sentimentality. Each Chapter named after a chemical element of the Periodic Table. Slightly Dark!John. Many thanks to It's-Teatime-Somewhere, Kephiso and NostalgiaRomance for beta'ing and rescuing this! Please review!
1. Lanthanum

_DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, copyright of the characters goes to their respective owners. The lyrics are taken from Mumford ad Sons and Laura Marling's songs._

_My gratitude for the immense help of my two betas Kephiso and Nostalgia Romance, for without their aid, the story would have been of a lower calibre._

_Comments would make my day. ;)_

_CHAPTER 1_

_Lanthanum_

_(Greek_"lanthanein"= to lie hidden)_

"_Oh a candle at my chest, and a hand on his knee"_

_Time is elusive. As well as life. Life can end in a blink of an eye._

And I am not talking about death. I am talking about the torture of losing everything you have ever loved, every day.

_Death is simple, too simple for it to have been so destructive. It's also permanent._ But this… He is condemned to living this.

Having everything at his grasp, but unable to hold it in his embrace. How can you be kept away from everything you love, when you know that if you stretch your arm you could catch it? But if you did, then hell would break loose.

_John. _

He saw him grieving, he saw him mourning, his despair making him sick. He could literally feel his body suffering. His throat was dry, his chest tight and his mind constantly foggy. The never-ending stream of information overwhelmed him, when his only desire was _silence._ He had acquired an internal tremble and his moods were even more cyclothymic than before. Symptoms which reflected his emotional turmoil. The only problem was that he still ignored the cause of his distress. Guilt.

Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt? But why? He did what he had to. He saved John. He saved all of them. He proved to be a better man than was expected, than he believed he would ever be. He swallowed his pride, he "died" disgraced, he played till the end and won by losing the game. How ironic. Why Guilt? It was unreasonable, but this hated emotion stabbed him in the heart with viciousness. It was unfathomable, unprecedented! But every time he saw John collapse and burst into tears at his grave, he lost his composure. Every time he saw this proud, strong military man, sitting on his bent knees and clinging to his tomb stone like a lifeguard, something _screamed_ inside him. Well at _first_ something screamed inside him. It _screamed_ to reach out for John, to end this madness and save him from this folly. But every _single_ time his rational mind put a halt to his movements. Now that little something that was previously screaming had died. And now he just walked_, ran_, away.

"_I ran away in floods of shame  
I'll never tell how close I came  
As I crossed the hollow road  
Well you went left and I went right  
As the moon hung proud and bright  
You would have loved it here tonight"_

"_The reason?" _someone may ask. At first he had been baffled himself, but deep down he had always known. It is a defense, a coping mechanism. Contrary to popular belief, he is not a machine _– "you machine". Oh yeah… words hurt._ He just buries them deep down, pushes them into a dusty corner of his mind palace, but never ever deletes them. He is just too damaged to let them break his cold mask, the sociopathic persona he has so painstakingly created. He has been such a good actor and the audience was too thick to even realize the performance. Though, he would occasionally get applause from Mycroft.

He has never understood emotional pain, not until now. He has always thought of it as an exaggeration of soap operas and cheap love novels. He sometimes believed he was not capable of it. Too detached. Too alone. That was the truth.

Loneliness. He never felt, because he was never triggered to feel. But now his mind is struggling to process a hurricane of feelings, unknown territory for him, dangerous even. He feels like he is balancing carefully at the edge of a cliff, and with the slightest mistake, the slightest misjudgment he will trip and fall, to the unknown depths of his mind - the most dangerous place on earth.

_Oh, John._

He is reminded of his childhood…

_Mycroft and he are at the beach and he is frustrated of his inability to hold sand in his hands. He is around the age of 3, and he asks his older brother for guidance, not more that 10 years old at the time. Mycroft looks at him sadly. _

"_Brother dear, wet your hands at the sea. See? Now the sand stays in your palms. Why?"_

"_The sand gets wet and turns into mud."_

"_You seem annoyed."_

"_Not annoyed, but…"_

"_It has lost its velvety feeling, and the colour has been darkened. It doesn't shine in the sun. And yet, it stays at your hands."_

"_It's not beautiful anymore."_

_Mycroft simply smiles at him and taps his head. He murmurs something like "compromises" under his breath. Then he fixes his gaze at the horizon, this beautiful line between the sky and the sea._

He sighed heavily and shook his head. This was not the time to get sentimental. Wait a minute? Since when did he get sentimental? Since when has he been reducing himself by letting himself be _sentimental_? Oh, that was hideous, obscene. He had to collect himself.

_Pain is sharp, devours your essence and like a sharp knife cuts in your soul and removes every trace of goodness, of decency, of moral. Of love._

"_And I'll find strength in pain  
And I will change my ways  
I'll know my name as it's called again"_

But he neither cared about time, nor pain and its consequences. He had grown too cold for that.

"_Cold is the water  
It freezes your already cold mind  
Already cold, cold mind  
And death is at your doorstep  
And it will steal your innocence  
But it will not steal your substance"_

_Cold._ Many people had accused him of being that – among other things. He actually liked that word. It reminded him of the winter, the cold air howling around him, the beautiful snow. Oh, how he liked the snow. It was pure, the chemistry of it extremely simple but extremely unique, captivating. You see everyday something so simple in its beauty, yet so marvelous in its creation. White, just white, clearness, a symbol of love – in his mind – , of sentiment. It is said that there are not two identical snowflakes, the patterns surprisingly varied, chaotic in their structure, but at the same time perfectly symmetrical. He liked this, a lot.

The snowflakes were like John. John was simple too, at a first glance certainly so. Almost boring. And here come the chaotic patterns. He always held the element of surprise for him. Never knew what to expect from the doctor. And John was _white_ too. He was caring, loving, pure, accepted him the way he was, and always pushing him to be a better man, a better person. For exactly that was _white_ to him.

Not right. _Stop_. He had to stop contemplating things from his past. It was useless, unnecessary pain. He was now dead to John, and he should remain that way, if he did not want the situation to change to "John is dead to him", literally. He should not dwell on the past. But he was still sure that with John he would become a good man…

He was certainly losing his mind! Goodness was not a quality of his, moral never his concern, decency an absurd concept. What is the decency in life? Where can it be found in its pure form, if anything like that ever existed? There is no decency, or bravery, or pride, or dignity in death either.

_Fools_ are those who believe in such concepts.

_Fools_ are those who willingly are led to their death, their destruction, with pride in their hearts, derived from some misguided feelings of heroism.

_Fools_ are those who believe in ideals, in the purity of thought, in _morality_.

What a _despicable_ word! Who can claim that he embraces the ideal of morality? Whoever claims that is a liar, immoral. Humans are made weak, are made with passions, and are _**made**_ immoral.

Humans despise and adore their destructive nature, their obscenity. Some of them try to fight it, to win the battle between the heart and the mind, the will and the rules. You can't win this battle; only lose yourself in the progress. And all that remains is an empty shell, a vessel, a void, where should be the heart.

Wise those who do not engage in this battle. Those who know that the mind shall win. That logic -and only logic- can protect from the destructive whims of the heart.

"_I find it dull when my heart meets my mind"_

The wind is very strong and the heavy rain makes it hard for him to see, let alone walk. He stumbles, feeling his knees give out underneath him. He leans against a wall, exhaustion creeping into his body and making his limbs heavy, unwilling to move. It must be the rain, the lack of sleep that makes his body uncooperative. _It must be the rain_.

He is glad it is dark, the night is always comforting; the darkness always ready to envelop you, to make you get lost in it, to take everything away.

"_Darkness is a harsh term don't you think?  
And yet it dominates the things I see  
Darkness is a harsh term don't you think?  
And yet it dominates the things I've seen"_

Anonymity is another treasure that the night gives you freely. The night keeps you secret and safe from others, and more importantly, from yourself.

"_Night has always pushed up day  
You must know life to see decay  
But I won't rot, I won't rot  
Not this mind and not this heart,  
I won't rot."_

He slides against the wall until he is crouched at the ground, feeling the wet mud underneath him. He is shivering now, soaked to the bone. Wet clothes covered in mire and blood. His wounds need time to heal, and perhaps some antibiotics for the infections and some shots of morphine for the pain. But hospitals are out of the question, drug dealers won't provide him any – thank you, Mycroft – and stealing any is nigh on impossible. Not in this condition anyway; looking like a homeless drug addict does not permit someone to move unseen.

He manages to sit on his knees, carefully changing positions, although his cracked ribs protest rather strongly against the effort. He gasps, choking down a cry when he feels the agony that hits him in waves of increasing intensity. Thank god the air is howling around him, or he couldn't avoid hearing his own voice make such disgusting sounds! He shuts his eyes reflexively as a wave of nausea hits him without warning. He barely has time to tilt his head forward and get to his hands and knees to avoid vomiting all over his front. He hasn't eaten anything in days, so only bile comes out from his sore throat, burning his insides. He coughs, gagging at his own spit.

"_Tremble for yourself, my man,  
You know that you have seen this all before  
Tremble, little lion man,  
You'll never settle any of your scores  
Your grace is wasted in your face,  
Your boldness stands alone among the wreck  
Now learn from your mother or else spend your days biting your own neck"_

Oh how pathetic. How plebeian. Having a meltdown in a muddy alley, alone, hungry and injured. How common, normal, boring he's become! He feels lonely - for the first time in his life - he does feel terribly lonely. It's not that he is _suddenly_ alone, no. He has been alone his entire life. He has had no desire for human contact. But through all his life he has had been able to count on people, even if he hadn't wanted to admit it. There had always been Mycroft. Bloody irritating, control freak, obsessive with order and egotistical megalomaniac, but he was there. Always. Then he had had John.

That hurricane that stormed into his life had changed everything and left him baffled, trying to process the damage. There was no one now. He could as well die in this dark street and nobody would know. Nobody would care to know.

"_I will die alone and be left there.  
Well I guess I'll just go home,  
Oh God knows where.  
Because death is just so full and man so small.  
Well I'm scared of what's behind and what's before."_

He feels empty, neither sad, nor euphoric. Empty. Funny, though. He always thought that, that kind of independency would be a deliberating feeling. He was clearly wrong. _Him being wrong!_ Unfortunately, that seems to happen a lot these days. If Mycroft was there he would retort with a sarcastic comment of the type: "_Oh, you lost your touch, my dear brother". A_nd strangely at that point, he fails to come up with a witty response.

He should be more careful from now on, when he was confronting Moriarty's men. The previous attempt had proven disastrous and had left him with a few injuries to deal with. The man had had nearly twice the body muscle of him and although shorter, had fairly easily managed to knock him down in a couple of minutes. After he regained consciousness, he continued his attempts to set himself free of – the newly found – death grasp on his throat. A fruitless fight. But somehow when his body had betrayed him, when he had given up completely, overpowered by the burning sensation that made his whole body tingle due to the lack of oxygen, his movements had begun to be frantic, erratic and spasmodic. His limps had been kicking violently, meeting only the void, but a spasm overtook his body, his knee buckled upwards and the monster choking him had made an unearthly noise. The hands momentarily moved away from his throat, and that's all it took for him to crawl away, while the man was doubled over, with his hands at his groin.

His mind had still been hazy, his body weak, resisting movement. But the thought of the horrible death that awaited him there if he stayed any longer, gave him enough motivation to disappear, running frenziedly in the darkness. He had never run so fast in his entire life.

''_And after the storm,  
I run and run as the rains come  
And I look up, I look up,  
on my knees and out of luck,  
I look up.__"__  
_

He is disgusted with himself and disappointed. He was out of his depth. He did not know how to deal with this. He only used his mind and these people were not appropriate enemies, where not his adversaries in a chess game, they were **not** Moriarty. They did not enjoy the thrill, the riddle, the danger. They were stupid, dumb-minded homunculi, trained killers. Scum. His judgment is definitely clouded by this abhorred _sentiment_.

_Sentiment_. How could he have overlooked all the facts? The clues were there certainly. How could he – of all people – have been so stupid?

_Inexperienced_, he could claim. So deprived of human contact, of signs of affection, that his subconscious yearned for them. But that was not true. At first he had dismissed the tingling sensation which coloured his cheeks, when he was praised or admired by John, as another proof of his narcissistic personality. The same way that he had never paid attention to why he found it absolutely necessary to observe John's sleeping patterns and play a soothing lullaby every time he was having a nightmare.

"_I woke up and he was screaming.  
I'd left him dreaming.  
I roll over and shake him tightly, and whisper "If they want you, then they're gonna have to fight me_

_If I look back and he is screaming,  
I'd left him dreaming, the dangers fade,  
I'll run back and shake him tightly  
And scream "if they want him, then they're gonna have to fight me!"_

Then, when he lost him, the realization hit him. He _cared_about John. He genuinely, truly _cared_ about him! That had never happened to him before. He though he was incapable of such an altruistic behaviour. He almost loathed these behavioral patterns – as he observed them in other humans –, as to him, they were nothing more than the admittance of weakness, a weak spot in the defense of a character, _a disadvantage_. And now he found himself in the unthinkable position of experiencing the long-ago buried sentiments of trust, of love, of need, of want.

"_He stole my heart and made me sing  
He tore me limb from limb  
I did not think that I could love  
Or be loved that way again  
__  
__How glad I was to be myself  
And use my heart once more  
How glad I was to be a man  
And love that man that I adore"_  
_  
_

_Sometimes you need to lose what you have in order to appreciate it. _He missed him. His smell, his eyes, his kindness, his loyalty, his friendship, his _love_. Because then he knew. What they had was more than friendship, what they shared was more than a mere sentiment. They shaved each other's lives of boredom, of normalcy, of routine. They sparked each other's long forgotten dreams. They shared a flat, a laugh, a cry and a life. They complemented each other, there were made for each other, as one key fits in only one keyhole. Their relationship would never have the potential to be carnal, though. That would be so pedestrian and degrading of what they shared. _What_, indeed?

He feels unusual warmth spreading down his cheeks. Startled, he touches reflexively his face. Moisture. He could not be crying, no. He had not cried for years! That was preposterous! Absurd! No, that could not be… He had not even a reason to cry! No. There has to be another explanation! Oh, the rain. Yes, that's it. It must be the rain, trickling down his cheeks. _It must be the rain_.

"_Weep for yourself, my man,  
You'll never be what is in your heart  
Weep, little lion man,  
You're not as brave as you were at the start  
Rate yourself and rake yourself  
Take all the courage you have left  
Wasted on fixing all the problems that you made in your own head"_

Suddenly, he was overwhelmed by the desire to sleep. He had not slept in days and his body, injured, malnourished, and soaked to the bone was screaming for some rest. He closed his eyes, half leaning on the wall, half sprawled on the muddy wet ground underneath him, and concentrated on his heavy ragged breathing and the sound of rain hitting the earth.

"_Sleep, these little slices of death, oh, how I loathe them."_

In the blissful stillness of the darkness, thoughts are evanescent, and all the fuss of data, of information, finally – _finally_ – stops. Nothing needs categorizing, nothing needs to be assessed and there is no need for him to decide either to store it or to dispose it. No. He just sits and every idea or thought passes through his head, merely passes. There is no analysis, no rush of anything. Blissfulness. Emptiness.

"_It's empty in the valley of your heart  
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk  
Away from all the fears  
And all the faults you've left behind"_

He feels his eyelids closing, his body spasms and trembles violently. Sobs overtake his body. It must be the rain he thinks, and the cold. Yes. _It must be the rain._

"_But close my eyes for a while  
Force from the world a patient smile"  
_

With a quiet mind, he slips further into the darkness, let it consumes him and welcomes the oblivion.

_"You were cold as the blood through your bones  
And the light which led us from our chosen homes  
Well I was lost_

_And now I sleep_  
_Sleep the hours and that I can't weep_  
_When all I knew was steeped in blackened holes_  
_I was lost_

_Keep the earth below my feet_  
_For all my sweat, my blood runs weak_  
_Let me learn from where I have been_  
_So keep my eyes to serve and my hands to learn_  
_Well keep my eyes to serve and my hands to learn_

_Just give me time_  
_You know your desires and mine_  
_Wrap my flesh in ivy and in twine_  
_For I must be well"_


	2. Xenon

_CHAPTER_ 2

Xenon

(Greek_"xenos"= stranger)

"_I fell into the street  
Poison in my veins  
Clamber to my feet  
And into the night again  
Back to my home  
Back to my owner  
Who screams at my tardiness  
Put his hands to the sky"  
_

_Little_ red brick houses. A typical neighbourhood, with _little_ people living their _little_ lives. _Little_ wives greeted their _little_ husbands back home. _Little_ lives. Little hopes. _Little_ dreams. _Little_ deaths.

Oh, how he despised that. The mediocrity. This frugality of thought, of creation. He feared it too. _Yes_! It was more _fear_ than loathing, this _unsettling_ feeling that he had. He always felt like that, since he had been a child. That's why he had always wanted to excel at something. He unconsciously feared the consequences of the opposite. He spent his life dedicated to his goal. _Avoid_ mediocrity. _Avoid_ routine, boredom. He chased his dream, in a way. _How romantic of him! _

"_The grey in this life is too much to bear  
The grey in this life is too much to bear  
And I believe we are meant to be seen  
And not to be understood"_

The man with no feelings, the self proclaimed sociopath, the machine. The _freak_. All his life he accepted the insults, the isolation – he even encouraged this behaviour. He quickly learned how to alienate _little_ people. How to avoid the nuisance of socialising with them and let their little thoughts and feelings cloud his mind, his data, his work. He lived alone and he'd accepted his death would be a lonely one too. Maybe his brother would come to his grave once or twice a year… _Possibly_ _not_.

Mycroft had never been an expressive person. If anyone in the family, he was the sociopath. He knew how to hide himself though. A cold smile, some polite words. That hated drama; why bother with pretention? Their family was not the caring type. They weren't accustomed to the expression of feelings. They weren't even accustomed _experiencing_ them. An advantage, surely. Right? _Right_?

He stands at the doorstep of a small entrance on a simple flat in London. Bricks, black door, gold letters attached to it, indicating the number of the street. Baker Street. 221b Baker Street. He has a key. _Of course he has_. He slides it in the keyhole. It fits. He turns it. He stumbles a bit, undecided. _To hell with this!_ He opens the door. He hears a woman's voice singing.

"_Come fly with me, _

_Come fly, _

_Let's fly away…"_

He smells fresh-baked cake and perfume. Floral.

The daylight creeps from the opened door inside the dark hallway and illuminates the walls. Same tapestry. Stairs. He climbs them careful not to make a sound. He masterfully avoids the loosened parts of the wood in fear of cracking under the pressure. It's morning, though. John is at work. Nobody would notice him. Well nobody, except half a dozen MI6 agents – under Mycroft's command, of course. Oh, he will be furious! The fact itself strangely pleases him. Nice. Like old times. Except it is not, is it?

_Three years_.

Things have changed. A lot. And not for the better. He does not try to fool himself. He is heading to confront his worst nightmare and the realization of his dream. Strangely he cannot bring himself to care. He has to do it. For John. For his sanity. He owes it to himself – t_o clear his name_ – and to the only person he ever cared for – _to_ _ease his despair_. It will not be easy. Chances are it is too late, things are _too_ broken now. _He_ certainly is broken now. _John_ is certainly broken now.

"_I know that things are broken  
And though there's too many words left unsaid  
You say you have spoken  
Like the coward I am I hang my head"_

_He_ can see it. _He_ can tell. He does not let anything away of course, but he cannot hide from _him_. The way his shoulders are stiff again, the way he smiles half-heartedly, the way he screams at night. His thoughts are drifting away but he cannot afford to lose his grasp at reality. _Not now_.

"_I will not fall  
Once more I'm called  
Time comes for all  
Then dark is whole_

But oh, my heart was flawed  
I knew my weakness  
So hold my hand  
Subscribe me not to darkness"

He has fought so much to come to this point. He has not only fought Moriarty's men, but old aged demons and monsters he had long forgotten. They had been locked in a dusty closet of his mind palace. Their release made him lost himself, in the process of capturing them again. But now he has to stand like a man, he has to be a,

he has to be,

he has to,

he has,

he…

His breath does not quite escape his lips; he makes a choking sound instead. He feels his head exploding, his heart pounding so hard it is the only sound that reached his ears. He begins trembling, his eyes watery, a choked sob ripped out his throat. His legs give away and he falls heavy on the floor with a thud, muffled by the carpet. Suddenly it is all too much. Too much. _Too_ _much_. He closes his eyes, curled in the foetal position and let himself – finally, _finally_ - go. He cries like there was no tomorrow, feeling exhausted, all the energy drained out of him. He had only fought for this moment, for his return – like a modern Odysseus – and now that he reached his Ithaca, the last reserves of courage he had, just vanished.

He can smell John, his things all over the apartment.

John. What a beautiful name! He repeats the one-syllable word under his breath, like a prayer.

John.

_John_.

_John_.

He does not even try to move from his position on the floor when he hears footsteps – unmistakably John's – approaching, climbing the stairs. Nor does he react when he hears someone screaming. Frantic screams. He does not feel anything when a kick lands to his stomach and then another and another one… He understands none of the angry words that are spitted out with venom from his friend's mouth and shouted to his ears. He can just lie there and cry. Not with violent sobs like before. Now these have subsided and have given their place to silent tears. A silent surrender to sorrow.

He finally reacts when he hears a familiar voice; sounding not angry anymore but sad, mournful. He still has not moved, for that was too difficult. He opens his eyes slightly at first, his sight unfocused, hazy, until he finds John's face millimeters away from his own, with watery eyes and concentrates on it. He feels two hands gripping his shoulders tightly and shakes him viciously. He can see his friend's mouth moving but no sound emerges. He thinks _"I love you"_. He does not know if he said it out loud. No power. No courage left.

"_Though I may speak some tongue of old  
Or even spit out some holy word  
I have no strength with which to speak  
When you sit me down and see I'm weak "_

By the silence that abruptly follows and the look of sheer confusion and genuine surprise marked on John's face, he supposes he did. He smiles.

"_So I jumped into my grave and died,  
And on your word I gave up your whole life for you,  
And I was reborn bigger and stronger and less alive...  
I...I..."_

"_How fickle my heart and how woozy my eyes  
I struggle to find any truth in your lies  
And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know  
My weakness I feel I must finally show"_

He had a very bad day. To be honest, he had a very bad week. Well, more of a very bad year. To be precise three years had passed and his life had been transformed into a living hell. Since that bastard died, Sherlock _fucking_ Holmes, his life went down the hill. He lost his sanity, his reputation and his job. Every night he went to sleep, ended waking up screaming and cursing the hatred name under his breath. Every night.

"_I broke down in horror at you standing there  
The glow from the moon  
Shone through cracks in your hair.  
I shouted with passion,  
"I love you so much"  
But feeling my skin, it was cold to the touch.  
You whispered, "Where are you?"  
I questioned your doubt  
But soon realized, you were talking to God now"_

He mourned him at first, kept fond memories and bittersweet reminisces well hidden and protected in a corner of his mind. He gave in to the pain, to that tearing emotion that was more crippling and traumatizing than the entire war. He felt betrayed, not by Sherlock, but by himself. He had allowed growing an unhealthy attachment to the other man. The boundaries of friendship had been long ago crossed between them, but he was too naïve to even realize that.

"_And I was so shallow to the one man who stuck around  
Sunk so low that I nearly drowned  
And I screamed of his heart when he wasn't around  
Consoled him recklessly, I knew he was down"_

These conflicted thoughts of adoration and loathing did not last more than a year. The unconditional devotion to Sherlock's name had been poisoned by doubt, fear, and sorrow and had turned into implacable hatred. He was a changed man now. In a way the death of The Fraud was a blessing in disguise for him. He re-evaluated his actions and decisions; he adopted a completely different system of morals and ethics. Either he would _bend_ to fit to the given situation or he would _break_ becoming a shadow of himself, trying to relive past glories. And John Watson was not a man who broke easily.

"_And you've broken your only doll  
And what will you do with a man  
If he's refusing to be alive?"_

He didn't even flinch, when he saw a familiar pale body curled on the floor. Dark messy hair, plastered to his forehead with sweat, tears and saliva dripping down his chin and neck. His eyes shut tightly, his whole face contorted to the wearing of a terrible mask of agony and fear. He just froze on the spot, as his mind went totally blank for a few moments. He felt like _ice_ was running through his veins. Then, as the miserable creature on the floor drew a shaky breath and let a quiet sob escape, _fire_ consumed him. His whole body stiffened, his muscles tensed. Energy and heat radiated from him. His mind transformed from the total blackness, to warm blurry fuzziness and then _exploded_ making a thunderous noise. His vision became frightfully clear, a fearsome clarity overpowered him.

Anger.

_Anger_. Blinding feeling; clouds the judgement and destroys logic in a battle of heart and mind. What man can claim that his heart never overpowers his body? Who would claim that he holds the strings of his restrains in his hand? A fool he would be, and a liar. And there is no mere lie that is worse than the deceit of oneself. And it would be deceit if he did not admit that swelling rage was all he felt. A coward he would be, if he did not admit that his actions were fuelled by nothing else but hate. He launched an attack against the lying figure.

He screamed, he spilled words with venom and the force of his attack developed with an increasing intensity, till a single "crack" sound makes him stop. The man was then holding his breath, teeth clenched tightly. His fury didn't vanish when the skinny person on the floor started sobbing silently but never- moving, neither flinching nor fighting back. He just stoically waited for another blow, another word of hate. Oh _God_ it made him mad! This apathetic behaviour! He could stand anything; fighting, swearing, dreadful apologies but not… _this_!

He reached down and grabbed him by his shoulders tightly, shaking him violently, his knuckles white, fingers dipping into his skin, finger nails cutting the alabaster in bloody crescents. He forced the younger man's face upwards, clutching his cheeks and neck. He dared to look at these blue grey eyes for the first time in three years but they were closed shut, tears tricking down on his hands.

He talked and talked and talked…Begged him, and pleaded him to open his eyes. He did not even realise the lies he was uttering. Blatant and unashamed manipulation. He disgraced the man, became the cause of his distress and then offered him consolation, fake sweet words, mournful voice. Finally with a deep intake of breath, and after an attempt to choke down a sob, the pale man opened his eyes hesitantly. His pupils were barely visible, his sight flicking through everything, cataloguing but still confused, hazy and afraid. _Wait_.

_Afraid_?

"_I'm not calling you a liar,  
Just don't lie to me.  
I'm not calling you a thief,  
Just don't steal from me,  
I'm not calling you a ghost,  
Just stop haunting me,  
And I'll love you so much,  
I'm going to let you,  
Kill me"_

His sight seemed to focus and his gaze locked on his face. The intensity of his eyes surprised him. He ceased talking as soon as the man's fully shaped mouth, which was quivering and shivering, while spasms were running through his body, broke into a breathtaking smile.

"_I love you."_

And then the world turned _red_.

"_Oh you'll jump into your grave and die  
And on my words you'll give up your whole life for me  
And you'll be reborn big and stronger and less alive...  
I...I..."_


	3. Rubidium

_CHAPTER 3_

_Rubidium _

_(Latin_"Rubidius"= deepest red)_

"_There was a time of weeks, I thought dogs barked at me.  
And I, and I had lost my mind.  
And the devil had put his mark on me,  
and called his branches shake the trees?  
That wasn't me for my trying, that was the devil and his lying.  
Trying to make me loose his mind._

_Pray, Pray for me._

_I cannot love I want to be alone,  
I will not love I want to be alone.  
That's not love for its trying, that is god and his lying.  
Trying to make me when I'm trying to be good.  
Oh Pray, Pray for me."_

As Red as Snow White's Lips, echoing the words of the fairytale.

As Red as Poppies, the flowers of legend that formed after being coloured by Christ's blood.

As Red as the beating Heart, the end and the beginning of the humans.

As Red as Wine, the sacred wine of Dionysus, god of lust and father of lies.

As Red as Fire, the devouring, destructive element of nature and the mother of all humanity.

As Red as _Blood_.

Three droplets of blood stained the white carpet. Three small circular stains, undetected by a careless observer. Nothing else.

_Stillness_.

Everything is exactly as usual. No disturbances. No turbulence.

Except… that's not quite right, is it? Something's different.

Oh! _Oh!_

The smiley face on the wall looks pointedly at the skull on the mantelpiece. The skull gives a knowing look and his gaze goes towards the sitting man in the armchair. Eyes shut, proud composure, straight back, hand touching and rubbing occasionally his forehead. Black circles around his eyes; indicating profound lack of sleep. Tired face, battered body. Eyes snap open, a deep intake of breath. Slowly moving from his sitting position, he reaches for the small box laid on the coffee cold metal warms up by the contact with his skin, while being caressed with such love. He gets up, heading for the door. He grabs his coat and climbs down the stairs. He opens the door and is welcomed by a cold breeze of air that freezes him to the bone.

"_Put it down to me  
I who speak awkwardly  
Any word if it is heard is not intended to be  
Not for him, not for her, not for them  
And not for me  
Oh and that gun will turn before the sun starts to burn, understand" _

* * *

A taxi and 20 minutes later, he is making his way through the tall field grass of the English countryside; less than two kilometers further, and the path comes abruptly to a halt, as it stops at the entrance of an old abandoned warehouse.

These warehouses were especially common during the Second World War and they served as hiding places and shelters against the bombings. Now, they are abandoned buildings, surrendered to the mold and the decay. This particular one is of his liking; being rather a small one and of a heavier build than the most. The walls are inches thick, isolating all sound and protecting the building from outer attacks. During the war these walls were perfect for preventing bullets and any other scraps of metal or bombs which were threatening to breach its defense. The location is ideal, remote; the people in the pick town nearby are oblivious to the presence of the warehouse.

He steps through the door and his eyes flick through all the details of the spacious room. The walls painted with grey industrial paint and adorned with green tree-shaped branches created by mold and humidity. Like a gigantic ancient tree, growing and covering every space available, all-encompassing and choking the building. The leaking ceiling and the nasty pipes are covering the walls, creating arachnoids' webs that coexist with the ancient tree.

In the centre of the room a tied man, ankles to wrists, has his head bowed, resting to his knees. Dark curls frame his pale forehead; sharp cheekbones tone his ghostly appearance and give a frightening intensity in his eyes. He approaches silently, careful not to startle the man, who apparently has drifted into a lethargic sleep. He stands right before him; takes the cold metallic weapon off his jacket and shoots towards the ceiling. The curled man yelps, head snaps upwards, eyes wide, open and frightened. He reflexively jumps at his feet but his restraints halt his movement and his fruitless attempt ends with him meeting the tough ground as he falls on his back. His head makes a thunderous noise as it reaches the cold cement and tears are streaming down his face. He stays unearthly still; the only sound in the room, his ragged breathing.

"_The harvest left no food for you to eat  
You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see  
But I have seen the same  
I know the shame in your defeat."_

"Tsk, tsk, I'll have none of that" he hears himself saying. _Step._

"Do it." he commands. Unusual display of strength for a man tied and bleeding on the floor. _Step._

He _thinks_ he knows. Good. _Very_ good. Surprise can be a beast, and right now this beast is on his side. Better continue the deception, why spoil the fun? _Step._

"Whenever I want. It's _my_ decision now". Step.

"It always was, you know." Step.

"We both know that is not quite true, don't we?"

He violently grabs the man by his shoulders and forces his eyes to lock with his own. He gets on his knees in front of him.

"What will you do to change my mind?" He whispers as he places both of his hands at the sides of Sherlocks head, fingers entwined in the raven locks, tagging just slightly.

Silence.

"_Just give me a second darling  
To clear my head  
Just put down the scissors baby, on this single bed  
The sand in the hourglass is running low  
I came through thunder, the cold wind  
The rain, and the snow  
To find you awake by your windowsill  
A sight for sore eyes and a view to kill"_

Tears are dripping to his hand caressing the other man's lips. _Tears_. Different tears. Cold tears. Tears of… _pain_? No. Tears of… _misery_? No. Tears of… What is it, damn it! After all these and that brilliant mind still resists him. Well let's confuse the whirling thoughts, shan't we? Let's give him a puzzle that he cannot solve. _Give him a puzzle and watch him dance_. _Slap._

He bows his head and licks the reddened skin on the younger's man cheek, fingers leaving a white mark across his face.

"I said what would you do?'' Startled face, big eyes. Enormous eyes. Almost childlike. He can see the thoughts and possibilities dancing through his head. Oh god, he doesn't get it! Let's give him a hint. Why not?

"It would be a shame to let the great Sherlock Holmes die a Virgin, don't you think?" he let his words sink in the bleeding man's head and then…

Terror.

He had fought in Afghanistan, he could distinguish fear, from agony and terror. And this was sheer terror; shock froze the man on the spot, like an electric bolt. It was like everything just stopped for a moment. The clocks stopped ticking the seconds.

Processing. That's the _first_ reaction. Good.

He waited a few more moments.

Silence. Not a single word. Well, he had not exactly expected a response, but he never believed that he could render the man speechless.

He starts methodically to loosen the restraints of the pale man on the floor. Not enough to permit him to stand, but just enough to let the blood-flow uninterrupted again. The knots are strong. Military. They have cut the skin in several places, possibly while the man have been desperately trying to free himself from his bonds. Silence. Still in shock, then.

"Not so high and mighty now, huh?". A mocking smile. Tenderly, his hand touches the bare skin of his neck. He shivers. Without a warning a fist connected with his stomach. A gasp.

"_Stars hide your fires  
These here are my desires  
And I won't give them up to you this time around  
And so I'll be found  
With my stake stuck in the ground  
Marking the territory of this newly impassioned soul_

_But you, you've gone too far this time_  
_You have neither reason nor rhyme_  
_With which to take this soul that is so rightfully mine"_

"You won't." the lying man whispers, barely audible. Disbelief, disdain, confusion.

"Oh, really? Why not?"

"It's not… you. You are…" a pause, searching for a word "…not like that. You are not a… Why would you even want _it_? You can't…" The words caught in his throat, his chest rises and then deflates, _a deep breath._

Second stage; _denial_. Good.

"I can end it, right here, right now and no one would ever know. Technically you are already dead. Who would search for a body of a dead person? Who would miss a deceased? Hell! Even if you were alive and I killed you, nobody would care. Even then. Even if they knew, they would never convict me. They would probably applaud me. I would be a hero! The man who killed the sociopath, the fraud. You can't get away from this now. No clever tricks. None of your magic. It is over." _A deep breath._

"And what gave you the impression that I want to get away from it? From you?" His eyes genuinely questioning.

"_Oh a sight I'd never seen, I believe in God still  
But you wouldn't be able to stop me if I feel like running away  
Wouldn't be able to stop me if I didn't want to stay"_

"Stop it you bastard. Stop it, now! STOP IT! Are you trying to play games with my mind? Don't pretend you care! Don't pretend you feel, you machine, you… you _freak_!" The last one, the military man screams with all the power in his lungs.

Amazement. Surprise. The prisoner's mouth twitches; his eyes now furious, sparkling behind his eyelids. His jaw clenches. But John is unfazed.

""_I love you"_. How could you? You left me half alive, Sherlock. I fucking mourned, I grieved for you. I came to your grave…" His voice lowers for a moment, then the rage overpowers him again and the sorrow subsides. "Jesus! You owe me! You will not refuse me anything! Not after all that. I own _you_ now!" he approaches in a fury and unbuckles his belt with fast movements, never stopping his accusations, voice full of malice.

"How can you look at me? How can you return now? Why? To prove once more your undeniable superiority over everything? You'd probably laugh at my expense. _"Oh, look at the idiot who cries over my dead body! People can be so stupid, so sentimental!" _Well I've got news for you! I am not going to succumb to your sociopathic manipulation. I'm going to end this shit right now and you'll be sorry for once. You will regret the day you crossed my path!" he pulls the safety of the gun and collides the cold metal with the side of the trembling man's head. "One move, one word and you are dead" he hissed at his ear. His tone low, dangerous but calm, emotionally discharged. "Am I understood?"

"I would never do that." a statement.

"What?"

"I would never regret the day I met you." calm voice, regulated breathing.

…

"Not even if you killed me right now."

"_Seal my heart and break my pride  
I've nowhere to stand and now nowhere to hide  
Align my heart, my body, my mind  
To face what I've done and do my time_

_Well you are my accuser, now look in my face_  
_Your oppression reeks of your greed and disgrace_  
_So one man has and another has not_  
_How can you love what it is you have got_  
_When you took it all from the weak hands of the poor?_  
_Liars and thieves you know not what is in store?"_

"If? You are the genius here but frankly your abilities aren't quite impressing. What makes you think I won't do it?"

"Because you have feelings for me. More precisely, you _love_ me."

"Wrong! I _loved_ you, yes. I will not deny that. But right now, all I feel is repulsion, _hate_!" He stresses the meaning of the word with grabbing the other man from his shirt, till he can feel his hot breath warming his skin.

"I _loathe_ you! I want you to see you in shreds, to see your eyes drained of life, I want to use you and kill you, like YOU did to ME!"

"You're crying."

Cry? _Nah_. Oh, moisture at his cheek. The tied, bleeding man, with a gun stacked to the side of his head can still make him cry. Reduce him. Overawe him. How dare he, after all he's done?

"You selfish BASTARD!" A scream, angry words.

_And then the battered man snapped._

"What?" the word dragged, barely something more than a breath. "What. Did. You. Say?" his eyes piercing, deadly eyes. Cold. Ice. Power. Sheer power cannot be restrained, cannot be controlled. Dominance. This beast cannot be tamed. Fools those who tried, death and destruction awaited them.

"Me? Really? Seriously now? Me? Care to support your argument?" His tone sarcastic, a mocking grin appeared at his face. Dangerous. The buildup of a coming storm. Bracing for the inevitable.

The military man stands still, no answer, no remark he dares to reply with. All he can see is a hurricane that is ready to burst and pull him in the whirling frenzy of it. Consume him. He can see something greater than a man. An idea. A dream. A purpose. Fire. Dancing flames.

"_He could fall and shake and weep  
By his holy are my feet  
And heart with mention the dear that may not speak  
We feel tight when there is tension_  
_And our eyes could make us weep_

_And his heart was full of fire_  
_At the man he had become_  
_And his soul was seldom higher_  
_With the falsities of fun_  
_Could embrace sweet desires in moments as they pass_  
_But he feared ever more, he saw it didn't last"_

"I died for you, you…. You imbecile! You never bothered to listen to me anyway, not even ask! You are so convinced I did everything for my own benefit. How MORAL do you deceive yourself thinking you are?"

He is now shouting, tagging at his restraints, spitting saliva, eyes blown wide. An unprecedented sight. Him; losing his composure, becoming surrendered to his passion, his _rage_.

_"And I'll keep on going, I've got nothing to lose  
I gave up morals when I took up you  
And it's boring to hear of another young truth  
What a typical thing to do_

_And I have felt heartbreak too and I know what it feels like_  
_And I have felt heartbreak, now you can leave me alone, right?_  
_I have felt loneliness and I know what it feels like"_

"HE pushed me off that edge. HE would have _you _killed if I didn't. If I didn't complete his story, if I didn't die in disgrace! I sacrificed my reputation, my name, my pride for you! And I did not regret anything. I do not regret anything. I did it full heartedly. I suffered. Three years now. I was fighting Moriarty and I was fighting _myself_. I risked everything to get back to you. And there was not one day, one single FUCKING day that I did not think about you. About your smile, your soul, your eyes. I was alone and afraid."

Voice cracking.

"So afraid!" A mere whisper now. Wait… He? Afraid? _Afraid? _

"And I was thinking of you as my salvation. How foolish of me! How sentimental I became! I thought the cause of suffering as my redemption!"

He bursts into hysterical laughing.

"Oh how preposterous! In what do you fool yourself to believe? In which moral do you pretend to abide? _"You taught me how to beg, and now you are teaching me how a beggar should be answered"._ How pretentious! I should have given up on life and humanity in that muddy alley. You would never have found out, you would never had had to act as if you care!"

He is screaming now.

"Alas! My fate! But yet I prefer to die by your hand. How damaged am I? How damaged am I?"

Voice gives up just like that. The fury evaporates, the words although feel heavy on the air, the atmosphere electric.

The man shivers and mumbles.

"What irony? The irony. The irony…"

The words are truthful. They _must_ be, there is no doubt about that. But time cannot be rewritten, sorrows cannot be forgotten, pain cannot be unfelt. Memories cannot be deleted. No. Even _he_ cannot do it, whichever claims he makes. He lowers the gun; lets it drop to the ground. He kneels on the floor and tries to ease his ragged breathing, a knot formed in his throat, his heart beating fast. He stays like this, on hands and knees, head bowed until the bile in his throat stops threatening to make its appearance on the floor. He stands on his knees and then on his feet. His head clearer now, although his mind still in war with his heart. The sounds of silent, supressed whimpers fill the room.

"_Oh, I watched him cry  
A broken heart at the hands of a child_

_And I watched him cry  
Torn apart at the hands of a child"  
_

He dares to look at the lean man, who is sobbing miserably, his trousers wet with his urine. What a pathetic sight! The great Sherlock Holmes reduced to this! And by whom? By a certain Doctor Watson! An ordinary John Watson. But no! _His_ actions led him to this situation. It was not his fault that Sherlock engaged in a battle of wits with a psychopath! Or was it?

"_And oh, so many die  
Torn apart at the hands of a child"_

He sees blood dripping from where the rope has burned his skin on his ankles and wrists. He stands up and starts walking towards him. He kneels again in front of him and begins to untie his bonds. A scream filled the room.

"No!"

Tears. More tears.

"Stop it!"

Hard struggle against the burning rope. Blood. More blood.

"Do NOT touch me! You…"

Sob.

"You…"

Cry.

"You traitor!"

Tears.

"You liar!"

An accusation.

He bows his head, stops fighting. He seems ghostlike; his bones clearly visible, several wounds make their subtle appearance on his neck and palms, where he is not wrapped under several layers of heavy clothing. He unties methodically, careful not to irritate the already angry wounds, and he takes the now trembling man inside his embrace. Sitting on the floor; two crying men – abused and abuser – curled tightly on each other, trying to cover every inch of their skin with the other's as possible.

"I am sorry, Sherlock. I am so sorry. So sorry."

"_Now all my rage been gone  
All my rage been gone  
I leave my rage to the sea and the sun  
I leave my rage to the sea and the sun"_

The air howling around them covered the other man's answer.

John thought if he heard the broken man speaking or imagined the words "He says I'm so lost. Not at all, well."

"Everything will be alright my love. Everything will be alright."

"_This is heaven and hell all at once  
This is all I got and all I want  
But like a lost soul I will wander the globe till this feeling's gone_

_And I want to be held those arms  
I want to be held those arms"_

And then the wind saw the two figures and took pity of them and embraced them, encircled them. The younger man curled on the older's lap, his head buried to the shortest man's stomach. His limbs all long and skinny wrapped around the blonde's waist, like afraid of letting go.

"_You lie careless your head on my chest  
And don't even look at me looking my best  
And all these things I can't describe  
You would rather I didn't try_

_But please don't cry, you liar_  
_Oh please don't cry, you liar_  
_Oh please don't cry, you liar"_

And the night came, and the stars shined. And the king Sun fought the stars and won, and the sky, the clouds caught fire. Fiery flames devouring the blue were dancing with their king. And the lake outside the warehouse matched their movements, following faithfully their partner's to a dance. The dance. The dance of life, of death, of truth and of lies, through all the eternity.

It might be alright after all. _It might be alright._

"_Cover me up I'm pale as night  
With a mind so dark and skin so white  
Is this the devil having fun  
I tip my cap to the raging sun"_


	4. Antimony

_CHAPTER 4_

_Antimony_

_(Greek_"anti-monos"= not alone)_

_Morning is mocking me._

"_Well I, own this field  
And I wrote this sky  
And I have no reason, to reason with you  
I'd be sad that I never held your hand as you were lowered, but I'd understand that I'd never let it go  
I'd be sad that I never held your hand as you were lowered, but I'd understand that the world does what it does"_

A lonely bird, a nightingale sung to the arrival of the dawn. Sung? Can you call this lament a song? No. The nightingale cried to the colours of the dawn. Yes… Tis' that! A cry suits the harrowing sounds better. The lake is calm, the waters mirroring the sky. Like a gigantic canvas, the magnum opus of a painter playing with aquarelle watercolours. Clouds lingering with their threatening presence above my head, like an eternal evil waiting to strike, hiding in the shadows.

"_When the clouds roll in, we start playing for our sins  
With a gun in my hand and my son at my shoulder  
Believe I will run before that boy gets older  
Oh and that gun will turn before the sun starts to burn, understand  
Oh and that gun will turn before the sun starts to burn, understand"_

Wind. Cold. Rain. Fear. Loneliness. What curse has been laid upon me? What power had wished me suffering? What God could be so heartless? Since when do I even believe in God? Funny how fate played me… I came to recognise, believe, pray, abide in laws that…

Footsteps. A voice.

"Sherlock (?)" A sigh.

"You will freeze, come in here." His voice is hesitant. I am afraid to turn and look. Afraid of what I might see.

The lake is so beautiful. Little drops of rain disturbing its clear waters. Little circles, vibrations created on the surface of the transparent mirror.

"_And the rain fell on the towers and on the late swaying trees  
And it hammered and it raged on us unwillingly  
And the believers were forewarned, and they ran into the storm  
And watched the earth's light flicker and fail  
They watched the earth's light flicker and fail  
Flicker and flicker and fail"  
_

A hand; warmth spreading on my shoulder. I flinch.

"Come in. Please. You are blue, cold and shivering. You'll catch pneumonia!" he sounds desperate but I do not care. I want him to be desperate.

I cough, heavily, my chest burning.

"You see? Come in here…"

He leads me to the inside of the warehouse. No heating, but it is sheltered from the wind and the rain.

"You had me worried… And Mycroft…" I hear him say. I still don't meet his gaze.

"He has employed the whole MI6 to track you down."

A smirk "Oh, he acknowledges my existence now. Or rather I say, my disappearance?" sarcastic.

"Sherlock, why are you here?" He almost whispers the words in my ear. I can feel his breath spreading warmth at the base of my neck and I shiver involuntarily.

He is _too_ close. His hands are _too_ rough against me. I step away. I catch a glimpse of him and he stares at the ground. His hands are fisted. I know he curses himself but I do not mind. I have wished his suffering.

"I look at all those people. They are so oblivious, so… lost. They seem contempt living in their own word of stupidity. They lead empty lives, yet they are happy. Like they have not yet reached the point of their maturity. They have identical lives, like working cogs in a giant machine, just numbers, not names. Masses. They are corrupted by their own venom, their own insufficiency, their own misery, their _mediocrity_ blackening their souls and clouding their minds. Their lives are driven by restrained hopes, by unholy desires and are heading to their death with delusions of humanity. _We_ all are, John. _We_ are deluded too."

"_And the rain fell on the houses  
And the rain fell on the trees  
It fell its fiercest on the skulls of the willingly deceived  
They put money in their hearts and God where their mouth is  
They put money in their hearts and God"_

I turn to look at him, face troubled.

"Sherlock, what are you saying?" he says so softly, almost afraid of the innocent spoken words. I saw a silent desperation in his eyes, _caring_. A protective gaze, an almost _motherly_ _affection_. How strange. This man can destruct me and love me at the same time.

"_And you never did learn to let the little things go  
And you never did learn to let me be  
And you never did learn to let little people grow  
And you never did learn how to see._

But I whisper that I love this man, now and for forever to your soul as it floats out off the window  
To the world that you turned your back on,  
To the world that never really let you be."

"What is the point of all this suffering? This parade. This hateful circus! Imagine the end of all lies!" I can feel a single tear tricking down my cheek. It has become hatefully common these days; the crying.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" He is hesitant. He is conflicted between grabbing me and running away. I don't blame him. I don't even know what I would prefer. Step.

"A dream within a dream. A bent reality. A delusion. A lie." sorrowful tone, a dreamy quality on my voice, I can feel my thoughts drifting away in labyrinthine mazes. Anything to get away.

"Sherlock you are starting to worry me. Please look at me!" a careful approach, a comforting tone. _Oh John! _You are not running away but you do not dare to touch either! You're a coward. Somehow, I'm disappointed of you.

"_And I am lower now, and lower still,  
And you did always say that one day I would suffer.  
You did always say that people get their pay.  
You did always say that I was going places,  
And that you wouldn't have it any other way"_

"How ludicrous! We bend the reality to fit us, to serve us, to feed our depravity! How marvelous!" A hysterical laugh.

"Sherlock turn around, look at me. I said look at me!"

Screaming. _Too much screaming_; and is not John's voice the one that screamed so loudly at my head. A white noise, deafening sound fills my mind and makes me lose my balance. Suddenly I feel like flying, weightless, _free._ No screaming anymore, no noise, nothing. The consoling, soothing, welcomed void.

"_But I couldn't turn my back on a world, for what I lack wouldn't let me  
But I couldn't turn my back on a world for what I like I need it  
And I shouldn't turn my back on sweet smelling Blackberry stone"_

All that John saw was a pale tall man disappear to the depths of the mirroring lake. All that John heard was the noise of the splashing water.

"_All that I have is a river  
The river is always my home  
Lord, take me away  
For I just cannot stay  
Or I'll sink in my skin and my bones_

_The water sustains me without even trying_  
_The water can't drown me, I'm done_  
_With my dying_

_Please help me build a small boat_  
_One that'll ride on the flow_  
_Where the river runs deep_  
_And the larger fish creep_  
_I'm glad of what keeps me afloat_

_Now deeper the water I sail_  
_And faster the current I'm in_  
_That each night brings the stars_  
_And the song in my heart_  
_Is a tune for the Journeyman's tale_

_Now the land that I knew is a dream_  
_And the line on the distance grows faint_  
_So wide is my river_  
_The horizon a sliver_  
_The artist has run out of paint_

_Where the blue of the sea meets the sky_  
_And the big yellow sun leads me home_  
_I'm everywhere now_  
_The way is a vow_  
_To the wind of each breath by and by"_

* * *

"Right there you are… Drink this… Good…Like that. No, no, no, no, no! Don't try to stand! It's ok. I've got you. Lay still for a minute. You do it frightfully often you know… Passing out."

"Oh well. Good thing you are always there to catch me then."

I open my eyes and try to support my own weight, instead of laying into John's embrace; I still have to maintain some dignity.

"You know I could not be this time. You stormed out of the flat without a moment's notice. I could have failed to find you. You could be here all alone, drowning in that _bloody_ lake!"

I want to say that if it wasn't for him, I wouldn't even have known this cursed place. I don't. He knows.

"I _would_ certainly _not_! I am perfectly capable of self-protection John. You know you were not always here for me and you will not always be. I am not an unprotected child and even if I had fallen in the water all alone, I would be perfectly capable of climbing up!"

I don't need him and most importantly I don't want to need him.

"No you would not. You were unconscious Sherlock and that coat of yours was so soaked that weighted a tonne! And that is not even the point! What if you storm off again and I cannot find you and… Hell!"

He feels guilty. Good. A sigh, I avert my gaze.

"Look at me." Not this again! He doesn't have the right!

"Now!" Somehow I find it impossible not to obey. I fix my eyes on him. I hate it! Him looking at my eyes; his glare scrutinizing, _deducing_ me! How did he even learn to do that? He always read me like an open book; he knew what I felt before I have even realized it. How ignorant I was! My emotional side underdeveloped, like a stillborn baby, my sentiments _never_ lived, _never_ breathed, _never_ grew.

"Sherlock, please… Snap out of this. Please."

Hmmm… He begs.

"Why are you doing this?"

"_Because you told me that I would find a hole  
within the fragile substance of my soul  
And I have filled this void with things unreal  
And all the while my character it steals"_

"Doing what, exactly, may I ask?" Because I want to see you burn.

"You do not look at me, you flinch at my touch. You do not sleep. You do not eat either. You jeopardize your health this way, don't you see?" An exasperated groan, pleading voice.

"Why do you even come in here all the time? Put it all away Sherlock! Forget this madness, this… _rotten_ place! Make a fresh start! I forgive you, do you forgive me?"

Oh! He begs for forgiveness then. He will not have it.

"I come here to _avoid_ forgetting, John. This "rotten" place, as you say, is a part of my life, my memories. It is a _very_ important part of _me_. A milestone which links my past, my present and my future. This is where you…"

"_I will come back here, bring me back when I'm old  
I want to lay here forever in the cold  
I might be cold but I'm just skin and bones."_

Memories are too raw to be disturbed, better left untouched.

"Anyway, if you need an answer as to why I am returning here, it is that this place clears my mind. It helps me think. Is that an adequate answer to you?"

He sees past my feeble excuse. Of course he does. And he realises, and he hurts. But I don't mind. I want him to hurt for what he's done. We all have a price to pay, after all.

"Sherlock… Do not punish yourself that way. If you do not care about yourself, do not punish _me_ that way. I know, I have made mistakes, and I have messed things real badly but…"

He stops abruptly, a shiver down his spine, his eyes closed, his face wrinkled in… pain? He collects himself quickly and stares back at me. I know better than to ask him what caused his sudden distress. Post-traumatic flashbacks are something I came to be familiar with recently, and I know firsthand it's not a nice topic for chitchat. _Good._

"You disappear from the flat without a word's notice and I am wandering in the wild…"

An awkward laugh, a fruitless attempt to lighten the conversation.

"…to find you."

Oh, that's what it's all about! He never stops pretending! Let's play his game then!

"I am sorry you had to. In the future I will inform you as to my departure, time, place and arrival thoroughly."

My voice sounds cold, calculated, clinical, even to my own ears.

"No" defensive. "No, no. Definitely no! I don't mind looking for you! I mean I do, but because I'm worried, not because I am above that. I… well, it's hard to believe since my recent actions indicated the opposite, - and I tried to kill you, for God's sake! -, I truly care for you. I… I worry. Constantly. Oh, God! I'm sounding like your brother" He covers his face with his hands.

"_Said I'd been sleeping lonely, spending nights under the stars  
Little darling, we're all lonely, we don't all show our scars  
It's my heart, and my burden, and I would never bring you down like that  
My heart, my burden, I would never bring you down with me"_

I am not going to make it easier for him.

"You should not. I will not be a constant in your life as in the past. I will leave - permanently this time – and live in France. Our family house estate. I will continue my research. _Indoors_ research mostly, no more cases. I will probably pass my time with beekeeping. Bees are _fascinating_, don't you think?"

I turn to look at him. Eyes wide. Face pale. Jaw tightened. Afraid? Angry? Stressed?

He doesn't move nor speak. He concentrates his gaze on his trembling hands. He swallows, hard.

"Is that what you really want to do?" he still doesn't look at me. His voice is really small.

"Yes." He breathes deeply.

"Sherlock… I…" I don't stop him from trailing off. _I won't make it easier for him._

"I am so sorry. I know I cannot make things right again. I know I cannot change what I've done, and I really cannot find any excuse apart from…" he looks at me for support, but I keep my eyes fixed on his face, unemotional.

"I have been proved a lesser man. That day you said you loved me, I can say with certainty that I do too. You may not care now, and I cannot blame you. And I will not blame you. If you tell me to disappear, I will. I will not bother you again." His voice is stern and definitive. John Watson is a soldier. He cannot understand.

"I do not want to leave you, but I cannot love you. Thus, there is no mere point in torturing myself with the constant denial of what I crave for. I am an addict John, and an addict should not be walking with a syringe at his hand. I was never good at restraining myself, my wishes, my desires." Funny though, I should have got used to it, being rejected, isolated. Why does it hurt now? My mind drifts away to disturbing thoughts, I am – once again – lost in the corridors of my subconscious.

"These three years, my dear John, I learned how to _feel_. Disastrous, horrible, dangerous feelings, but _still_… I allowed myself to become sentimental. How proud you should be of me! _"You machine!"_"

A bitter laugh. My laugh.

"Oh God! Sherlock, I didn't mean…!" Why does he care now?

"Two words. So innocent, but the venom… _your_ venom! You _hated_ me! That moment you wished my death, I could tell."

Denial.

"Your eyes were glowing exactly like…, when you went to shoot me"

He flinches.

"Oh, do not fret!" Sarcastic.

"You do not have to be ashamed! We both know you could do it. In fact you would do it! I hurt you. It was only human to seek revenge."

"I did not want to hurt you! I…"

"You did want to. I am not angry at you. It is common behaviour among humans to want to prove their dominance, to humiliate their opponent, to control not only his body but his soul in its entirety. Thus, you tied me and left me without food and water, exposed to the cold. That's dominance over my body, the primitive instinct of violence. Your words on the other hand were meant to hurt my emotions – my recently found emotions. I was in a vulnerable state caused by the admittance of my feelings for you."

"Stop!" eyes glittering, his breath caught in his chest.

"Stop… .That. So detached. So… Like you are investigating the psychological aspect of a case! Like these things did not happen to you. What I did was not justifiable. You should not put up with this. With me! How can you still be in the same room with me? For God's sake! REACT SOMEHOW!" He is shaking with anger.

"I beat you, I tied you, I left you to suffer. I hurt you! How can you be so distant, so calculative? BEAT me! HURT me!"

"_I have wished thee joy, since I met thee; it heals my heart to see thee in bliss."_

"What do you want me to do? Cry, collapse, beg you to love me? I've done all of that already, haven't I? I even came and fainted at your doorstep! What more dramatic than that? What more sentimental? Do you want to know how I feel, huh? You want to see me react. Fine, then. Allow me!"

"I feel disgraced and… enraged! I've never felt more betrayed in my entire life."

I placed my hands tightly laced around my body, in a self-comforting hug, an attempt to shrink even more, to embrace my loneliness and my doubt. "Three years now, I longed for the day I would come back, for my return, for the day my wounds would be healed. I have not dreamt of this; this… this folly. This HAVOC! I have always thought I would come back and you would ease my pain and I would ease yours. How romantic!"

I spit the word, like the worst curse, like the worst evil; because it is.

"Childish, foolish thoughts! Hope and dreams are the worst enemies. It's your fault; all this. I was fine without you. I was living a life suppressing my feelings, even deprived of them. I had managed to focus on what was important."

"_But I gave you all  
But you rip it from my hands  
and you swear it's all gone  
and you rip out all I have  
Just to say that you've won  
Well now you've won"_

"I feel anger! Anger at you, at myself. But what is the point right now? Who can I blame? You? No, no, no." but I can blame him. I really can. Because he…

"_But it was not your fault but mine,  
and it was your heart on the line,  
I really fucked it up this time  
didn't I, my dear?"_

"You snapped; you cannot be held accountable for your actions. I, on the other hand… I have no excuse. I should have foreseen that your life would be the bargain of the game. He found a way to burn me, my heart out of me, after all. _"My heart",_ interesting choice of words, isn't it? He had made the connection before me. Ironic, although logical. An outer observer is always far more accurate and objective than the participant. But of course he was not right, was he? It is not mutual, the sentiment is not shared. He could have me…"

Hands all over me, words evaporated, a movement, soft muscle tissue, skin touching me… _everywhere_! And I melt, collapse into his embrace. And I forget how to breathe. Lips moving, hands touching, raven and golden hair mixed in a blur of colour, lean muscles. A hurricane of touch, bare skin to skin. Stripped, naked, exposed. Not people, but feelings.

Time and place, information vanishing. There is only the here and now, the presence of us two, the melting of us together; becoming one presence. Two damaged people - too broken to live, to function - finally complete.

In the stillness of the dawn, the world stops spinning, the sun stops its eternal dance with the moon, time and space shrieked, the only living things the two of us, connected into one, two hearts beating together, two breaths in one mouth. And the sun neither rises nor falls, it stays perpetually still; a disk of fire colouring the sky.

"_In the breaking of the morning we'll be dancing on my soft lawn  
When you're shaking out the anger that stops you from taking my call  
When you're running up the highway  
Singing I'm the king, the king of you all  
When you look back to where it started  
I'll be there waving you on"  
_


	5. Dysprosium

_CHAPTER_ 5

_Dysprosium_

_(Greek_"dysprositos"= hard to reach)_

Click

"Mycroft? Please answer your phone. I am... having some _problems_ here... Um... regarding your brother, Sherlock. Please, I know you can hear me...God, I even know you have me him, and the flat, under surveillance! You know what he is going through! What we're going through! It's... hard. Look, I... I need your advice. I _need_ to talk to you. Please come at Baker Street, or... I can meet you somewhere else? But I can't leave the house for a long time... he needs me. Contact me as soon as you manage."

Click

* * *

_Weeks passed without any particularly stressful or dangerous events. Sherlock's psychological state was varying. Deep depression was followed by long silences and a catatonic behaviour and to outbursts of rage, where things were flying all around the apartment, crashing on walls. Screams echoed at night. Between these phases, I had stayed at home, quit work, and more or less baby-sat Sherlock. I was dealing with a version of the man I loved, that was unaware of, and with which I was totally unfamiliar. I slowly discovered disturbing truths; Sherlock's tendencies to self-harming, self-humiliation and profound insecurities. During his night terrors and troubled sleep; I could hear his muffled murmurs and yelps of agony and consciously avoided drawing any conclusions – as I was too afraid of what I would discover if I dared to venture into the dark side of Sherlock's "palace". _

"_Sometimes I sit, sometimes I stare  
Sometimes they look and sometimes I don't care  
Rarely I weep sometimes I must  
I'm wounded by dust."_

_I was the one at his bedside, to relieve his fever with a damp cloth and strong medication. I was the one, who treated his various wounds; disinfected the deepest stabs and scratches, tended the misplaced half-healed broken bones, and held the weakened man into my embrace drawing soothing circles with my fingers at his back, until the tremors had subsided and the screams had been reduced to whimpers. _

_Sherlock was spending the mornings locked in his room and sprawled on his bed or half-sitting or half-lying on the sofa and staring out of the window. The nights were torturous; for the lack of sleep tormented us both and our memories came back, not only as ghosts, but as avengers in flesh and bones to inflict their nemesis._

"_By one in the morning day is not ended,_

_by two he is scared and sleep is no friend, and by four he will drink but cannot feel it,_

_sleep will not come because sleep does not will it and I don't believe him._

_Morning is mocking me"_

_Grief, betrayal, pain, love, hate, revenge, depression, loneliness, uncertainty, fear, forgiveness. These were things I could deal with; these were things I could handle. When I had managed to find a rhythm, a balance to ease the volatile tension, when I finally had believed in God's good intentions, things had got really bad, really quickly. _

_I was walking home one day, from yet another visit to the supermarket, with heavy bags of groceries and my shoulder protesting against the weight. I was lost in my thoughts, absorbed by the racing possibilities and processing the current situation, when I was climbing up the stairs of our small apartment. I entered the hallway and when I didn't see the familiar figure lying on the sofa, thus I assumed that the he would be at his bed. Half an hour passed and I decided to pay Sherlock a visit at his bedroom and offer him some steaming tea to calm his nerves. _

_I gently knocked at the door and pushed slightly. To my surprise it was unlocked and opened with the slightest bit of effort. Sherlock was sitting at his bed, eyes staring out of the window, naked. His slender form was only concealed by a thin white sheet. The almost transparent fabric was clenched hard in knots at his hands. He held his arms on the air, slightly elevated from his knees with the palms facing upwards as in an inviting gesture, as if he waited for a girl to accept his invitation for a dance, as if… _

_Blood stained the hands. Not stained. Blood was __dripping__ from his hands. Blood coloured the white sheets. Not coloured. Blood __painted__ the white sheets. _

_It formed little rivers and lakes, creating shapes and forms unimaginable. The blood poured freely and freely from a yet unseen wound, and in his inviting hands a glimmer of metal made its fleeting appearance, when a ray of sunshine illuminated momentarily the alabaster figure and then hid behind the grey clouds. _

_And Sherlock sat there like a marble statue, like an avant-garde painting; the result of the morbid fantasy of the troubled soul of an artist. And I froze despite my will; the sight took my breath away. I marvelled at the beauty found in destruction and pain, and I stood in awe of the pain and destruction found in beauty. _

"_But, you have blood on your hands  
And I know it's mine  
I just need more time  
So get off your low and let's dance like we used to  
And there's a light in the distance  
Waiting for me, and I will wait for you  
So get off your low and let's kiss like we used to"_

_"I looked in the mirror  
Bust something was wrong.  
I saw you behind but my reflection was gone.  
There was smoke in the fireplace  
As white as the snow.  
A voice beckoned gently,  
"Now it's time to go"  
A requiem played as you begged for forgiveness  
"Don't touch me," I screamed,  
"I've got unfinished business!"__"  
_

* * *

A knock at the door. A calculated, single knock and the sound of a lock, opening. Not even waiting for an answer or a key. I barely had time to sit up from the armchair and head to the door. The doorknob had turned, the door had already opened and a pale, tall man with brown hair and a spotless three-piece suit made his appearance.

His eyes were cold, his gaze and face blank, carefully concealing any kind of emotion. But behind the mask, I could see the restlessness of his analytical mind, the hidden anger consuming these fearful eyes, the stiffness of his shoulders. This visit was not of the kind where the exchanging pleasantries and the false platitudes were necessary.

"John, I don't have much time at my disposal. Do not waste time informing me about the current _"situation"_ of my little brother. I have a thorough knowledge of his… troubling endeavours." were his first words, before the door was even closed.

All of my confidence in my purpose, all the things that I have planned and carefully rehearsed to say, stuck in my throat. The man's scrutinizing gaze, his imposing appearance, his critical eyes_, my own guilt_, reduced me to a nervous wreck, and despite my agonizing efforts, I could not avoid the intimate tremor of my left hand. I fought to keep my voice steady.

"Look…, Mycroft. I am really sorry I had to… Well, I didn't mean to…"

Oh God! Great! That went well! I couldn't even keep I together for a minute.

"May I hold you right there? As I said before I have no time for your self-loathing, nihilistic outbursts, neither. You have a duty. You owe to yourself and to my brother; although, if you are averse or incapable of serving it, you could spare us your presence. If you intend to continue being associated with Sherlock though, do not stall, since your mere presence creates more problems than it solves, Dr. Watson."

His words were accusative, sharp and they contain a hidden anger but his tone of voice was conversational, his posture relaxed and an almost charming smile decorated his face. I shivered with dread for this fearful man, this calculative machine, this lethal foe. I trembled with rage at his words and their implications.

"Watch your words Mycroft! I may have mistaken, but I assure you; I will not give you the pleasure of drowning in guilt or be proved unsupportive and less of a man for Sherlock!"

My little outburst of rage sounded _too_ defensive. An unwise decision, I could give away… but he surely knows! How can he not? Yes he does, and he wants to see me squirm.

"You have not yet come to understand, that your failure – although would give me _great_ _pleasure_ – would not be in my best interest's, as … your "input" would aid greatly my brother's recovery. For the sakes of you both, I hope you will be successful. But you should remember one thing; we are neither enemies, nor friends, doctor. As long as you are held in a favourable position by my brother, I will certainly comply with his wishes. Although, if _anything_ happens to him, if you unwillingly or willingly cause him distress, I will not be so lenient _again_. I'm sure I do not have to pose any kind of a threat; because as you know Sherlock is very dear to me."

His eyes were gleaming, his voice was low and threatening and he had abandoned any pretext or manners. He had crouched his back and leaned to come to my height; his face a hair away from mine and his hands gripping my shoulders firmly and making the twisted knot of damaged nerves on my left one, writhe in pain. If he was _anyone_ but him, I would toss him to the ground and make a small demonstration of my not forgotten army training. But I was walking in an unmapped territory. Hostile territory of a dangerous enemy. The worst? I was on offense, not defense.

"Mycroft, I called you today for a reason. I will _not_ stand here and be insulted or argue with you. If you don't; want to help me, that's fine. You know the way out, I believe."

I played it well, insulted but collected. Even voice and supposed contained anger. How easily can fear be passed for anger!

"You can help him, you know. _If_ you want to…"

Then my big chance arose…

"Of course I want to! How many times do I have to prove my intentions? If this is all about the incident in the warehouse…?"

I bit my lip. Where did it come from? What demon had possessed me? Surely, that was going to be my demise! I closed my eyes and swallowed.

"The incident was unfortunate indeed; although I am surprised _you_ mentioned it. You should refrain from reminding me your attempts to assault and kill my brother when you are asking for my help. Do you think it is wise, doing otherwise? I am a man of little tolerance; you do not want to push my limits any further. And also, you do not have to prove anything to me - I know everything I need to. To him though? He is afraid and drowned by you, John, he insists on participating in this abusive relationship."

His words hit me harder than the bullet that has ripped my shoulder in two. His despise for me was prominent and not unjustifiable. Once again I felt guilt taking my breath away, pressure tightening my chest. But rage overpowered me. I was furious for my mistakes and my incapability.

"Abusive? What are you saying? That.I._abuse_.him?"

I breathed shortly after every word.

"Oh, do not pester John. This obsessive devotion of my brother to you is almost _disturbin_g! He has grown an unhealthy attachment to you, a feeling I fear, that is mutual."

His tone indifferent, casual. His right hand although still held the iron grip on my shoulder and his left one was held upright touching the wall behind. The position trapped me between the tall man and the wall, and my back was tightly pressed against it. Suddenly, I had the growing feeling of him smothering me; my breaths were shaky and shallow.

"Sherlock has been through a lot and he _needs_ me Mycroft, he is not devoted to me! I do not govern him, he has his own free will, and he takes his _own_ decisions! And I _need_ him because he gave me everything and I lost him for _three_ years Mycroft! I suffered for _three_ years! And now I have a chance to make everything alright again. Do you describe our feelings, our _relationship_ as abusive? Why? Because we have something you cannot comprehend? Yes, we're fucked up! Yes, we need time to cope. But nothing is worse than what we have already been through, and now these things are the past and we are heading to a brighter future. Together. Better come in terms with it!"

"_When the bell tolls, when the bell is going to chime  
You'd better call for your man up high  
When the bell tolls for your last day  
You'll be getting down on your knees to pray  
I'm a good man and I never did say  
Whatever it was that you did that day  
Now I'm not a man to go and place blame  
But you said that it was coming on judgement day  
I'm wounded by dust"_

The words poured out of my mouth before I could stop them, my own resistance to his imposing figure surprised me. Mycroft's eyes snap out of focus and his voice is low, his body tense.

"I want nothing more than to believe you, but I cannot appear as optimistic as you are, at the moment. Because I know my brother; _I raised him!_ I was there with him from the beginning. When our mother was lost in her troubled mind and her morbid fantasies. When our father was locked in his office ignoring our presence."

"_And Father I blame you with every inch of the being you gave,  
For I have become you and I know every part of the game.  
And Mother I love you, but how can you watch as I push me away?  
I cannot forgive you for bringing me up this way"_

"When he returned home back from school with bruises and cuts and he insisted he fell. When our mother died and we were given the insufficient _and ridiculous_ explanation of a heart attack, when the bruises at her neck were something more than… let's say "_suspicious_". When our father started drinking."

"_The young man stands on the edge of his porch  
The days were short and the father was gone  
There was no one in the town and no one in the field  
This dusty barren land had given all it could yield"_

"_And I was there_, when _he_ started to change… When _he_ did not meet the gaze of neither our foul father, nor mine, and stumbled, and acquired nervous ticks, and had his eyes always down to earth. _I was there_ when _he_ had a breakdown every other day and was reduced to a shivering mess every time the names of our parents were mentioned_. And I was there_, each time he was hurried to the hospital for a forced detox, after he was found deathly pale and drowning in his own vomit, locked in his bathroom_. I raised him_. You have no idea as to what he has been through, as to what he is capable of doing, as to what he is capable to process and absorb. He has many unresolved issues, open cases from the past to deal with, which have burdened him for years."

"_Beaten, battered, and cold  
My children will live just to grow old  
But if I sit here and weep  
I'll be blown over by the slightest of breeze  
And the weak need to be led  
And the tender are carried to their bed  
And it's a pale and cold affair  
And I'll be damned if I'll be found there."_

He has moved from his previous position and slowly headed to the armchair as he was speaking. He had his back turned at me and he leaned at the chair as if he wanted support, his words not full with menace but with pain, his eyes – _finally_ – conveying sentiment.

"I cannot prevent him from engaging in this self-destructive behaviour. I have certainly tried… I have done more that I thought was possible, but my actions failed to present the desired result. On the contrary, I could be held responsible for his current situation. I was too intrusive, I tried to force his redemption, tried to lead him to - what I thought as - his refuge. I destroyed him. I kept him sheltered from all the evil that would harm him, believing I was protecting him. How naïve have I been!"

He run his hands through his hair, as he let a choked sound, which might have been a half hearted chuckle.

"I could not understand that I would not always be there for him, that I could not always guard him. I should have acted different; I should not have treated him with such kindness; an oversensitive child. I should have shown him the cruelty of the world, teach him how to fight it, how to be _resilient_, how to _survive_. He was too delicate, too susceptible, when he stood alone to face this parade. He got hurt too many times; that's why he built walls. Unmoving, solid and unyielding walls."

"_Again I used arrogance as something to depend  
Condemned all religion to a pitiless end  
And a politician's resonance rang through my mind  
Patriotic in one sense, in the other just blind."_

"He alienated everyone and everything – benevolent or not, for he was unable to recognise the hatred from love – not risking even the slightest chance of getting wounded ever again. Because he knew he could not take it, he knew he could not survive another blow. His limits were long ago crossed; the only thing that kept him sane was hope.

My brother, Sherlock, is an idealist, John. He believes in the purity of thought, of ideas. That is why he dislikes people, the common, vulgar, licentious crowd and its malice. They contaminate his purity of thought, his utopia. Sherlock cannot cope with the hatred and pain poisoning his life. Protect him or abandon him. You _cannot_ stay and torment him. You _cannot_ expect him to be cooperative, and you certainly cannot expect the task to be easy. You _cannot_ expect it to be possible either. You _can_ only hope. You know now my dreadful mistakes and see their much feared consequences. Thus, I cannot judge yours, or condemn you for your recent actions; for I also know you have a good heart. I can however loathe you and fear you for your ability to play my brother like a puppet, influence him in an unimaginable way. So, I will not part ways with you with a threat but with a request; help him."

He was looking at me now like I was his saviour, his last chance of redemption, because I was. I had to be.

"I will not fail him. I will not fail you. I will not fail myself."

I realise now that was a promise I made to myself, my bravest commitment.

"I hope so Dr. Watson, I hope that one of us has still something to offer him. I have failed him so many times, I do not even…"

He was abruptly silenced and turned to face away from me, his head snapped back with a startling speed, as if surprised. Troubled I was, and I turned my gaze in the same direction to see Sherlock leaning on the doorframe for support and clutching the wood with his hands tightly, like holding for dear life. His skin had turned into an alarming shade of grey the last weeks, due to the lack of outdoors wanderings and exercise, his eyes and cheeks were hollow and the white bandages barely held any difference with his skin. A not appealing image, certainly.

"Mycroft is that you?"

The most disturbing thing was not the image of the weakened man, but the sound of his voice, a soft murmur that - I am sure – would move the most indifferent and cruel person. In his voice the pain and the need for hope were evident. You could not only see, but hear, the wreck of a man, the shadow of a once bright sun.

"Mycroft, where are you?" His voice a strange combination of demand and plead.

"I'm right here brother dear. Right here." Mycroft rose instantly from his sitting position and crossed the room with a couple of strides to reach for his little brother. He took the raven haired man into a careful embrace - as if holding a fragile flower - and the younger man leaned his entire body to rest at his brother's. Mycroft guided Sherlock to his bedroom. I dared not to follow.

"Rest. Sleep." I heard the velvety voice of the politician. Strange… Such… _caring_ in his voice.

"Don't leave." Came the earnest plead – or demand.

"No."

"Please, don't." Pleading then.

"Not this time. I won't. Not this time. Sleep." _Not_ this _time_?

"Promise?"

Promise? A Promise of What? A promise of security? Of love? Of trust? Of protection? An unspoken agreement. The patient imploring and the silent understanding.

"_Punish them all for they speak too much  
Hate the world for what it did to us  
But will I ever see heaven again?"_

"Yes." An _oath_.

From the door, I watched the exchange; the soft-spoken words barely audible to me, the reassuring gestures of Mycroft, the insecure, slightly panicked gaze of Sherlock.

The anxiety vanished, melted away to the appearance of his older brother. The politician hugged him tightly in a protective and possessive manner. They both looked so young, two lonely people, two extraordinary minds, two crippled hearts, comforting each other, finding light in the darkness.

I wondered if I was clouding the light, if I was standing in the way and blackened the sun for Sherlock. If I was just an intruder.

"_I need shine, I need shine, I need shine,  
Step away from my light, I need shine,  
I need shine, I need shine, I need shine,  
Step away from my light, I need shine"  
_


End file.
